


Serving Tea to Friends

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-19
Updated: 2004-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Wes needs... missing scene from The Thin Dead Line</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serving Tea to Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Author's Notes: This is written for the Wesathon and is for my darling beta Lonely Brit. The challenge was angst and mention of tea or 'some other quirky English trait'. Italicised lines of dialogue are from “The Thin Dead Line”. The title and quote are from the T.S. Eliot poem “Portrait of a Lady”. Huge thanks to Jane Davitt for her wonderful beta.

 

****

Serving Tea to Friends

_But what have I, but what have I, my friend,_  
To give you, what can you receive from me?  
Only the friendship and the sympathy  
Of one about to reach her journey’s end.  
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends;  
(T.S. Eliot – “Portrait of a Lady”)

 

 

“You need anything, English?”

Not that he would admit it if he did. If he had learned anything about Wesley Wyndam-Pryce recently it was that he was not very good at expressing his needs. He had a far too clear image of his friend in the ambulance, his own jacket pressed against arterial blood flow, Wesley’s skin pale and grey and much too clammy. Whispering something desperately; he had had to lean closer to make out what he was saying. Wesley had been apologizing for being such a bother. For getting blood on the jacket. For getting shot.

That had shocked him almost as much as the actual gunshot. He had wondered briefly if this unnecessary remorse was a congenitally English thing, like tea-drinking and talking about the weather. But he was beginning to understand that it was just a congenitally Wesley Wyndam-Pryce thing.

He leaned closer to the bed, but Wesley had dozed off again, a strangely euphoric set to his features. Gunn knew it had more to do with the influence of the morphine, than joy at being alive, but whatever the reason, it was nice to see Wes looking happy. 

His blissful repose was almost interrupted by the entrance of Cordelia, radiating quiet fury like a reactor core in meltdown. He placed his finger over his lips and nodded towards Wesley, aware that he was risking life and several of his favourite limbs by the gesture. She thrust a cup of coffee at him forcefully, and seemed to be mollified by his tiny hiss of pain as superheated coffee splashed onto his hand.

Cordelia moved to the other side of the bed and brushed a strand of hair away from the pale forehead. Wesley shifted restlessly in his sleep, but did not wake.

“Stupid idiot!” she whispered fiercely, her eyes suddenly bright.

“That’s kinda harsh, even if he can’t hear you.” He sipped tentatively at the coffee and watched her.

“No! I don’t mean Wes!” She paused and her brow wrinkled a little. “Though, actually, yes, he totally is an idiot. I mean, getting himself shot. God, Wesley, what were you thinking? What happened to ‘That’s really a dumb plan’?” 

She slapped her palm against her forehead in a gesture that could have been the actor’s workshop version of exasperation. “I am doomed. To be surrounded by idiots until the end of my days. I thought Wesley at least had some sense. Now it seems he’s been auditing classes at Angel University.”

She shook her head a little and ran her hand absently through Wesley’s short hair. “He was here.”

He had lost her somewhere around the surrounded by idiots part of her tirade. Knew it was useless to question her; she’d get back to the point eventually. Assuming she had a point. Please God, let her have a point, he prayed silently. 

“Angel. In case you were wondering,” she snapped peevishly.

“Angel? Was here? When?”

She rolled her eyes at him in another actor’s workshop specialty; irritation with a hint of long suffering endurance.

“When do you think, pea brain? Yesterday lunchtime? Not like the Powers gave me a heads up on Wes getting shot, so I’m pretty sure Angel didn’t get a preview.” 

Thing was, he really didn’t want to snap back. He thought that the acid sharp sarcasm was possibly the only thing holding Cordelia together at the moment. 

“What did he want?” Kept his voice low and even, determined not to betray his own anger. 

“Oh, he heard about Wes getting shot. Thought he’d show up and we’d all be falling over ourselves to thank him for giving a crap.”

She was about as angry as he’d ever seen her, spitting the words in a scornful undertone. 

“He shouldn’t have come. He wasn’t part of it and he doesn’t belong here.”

And righteous indignation seemed to be a release mechanism. Tears that had been held in since he brought Wes back to the shelter were gathering now, and she swiped the back of her hand over her eyes angrily. He moved beside her and put his arm around her back very carefully, uncertain of her reaction. She swayed a little as if she was faint, and leaned into him. He kept his arm around her body, supporting her as she sagged against him.

“God, he could have been killed!”

He didn’t say anything, just tightened his grip on her arm and tried not to think of his friend sprawled against a wall, bleeding out onto the sidewalk.

_“Is anyone else cold?”_

And his heart had turned to ice as he looked into Wesley’s eyes and seen a dead man staring back. He had determined then to cheat death, to physically force Wes to live, by hauling him bodily along the street and into the alley. If he just kept him moving, then he couldn’t die. You couldn’t die while you were still moving. Lying to him, telling him it wasn’t bad, that he’d seen plenty of people survive worse. And all the while he had felt the warmth seep out of the open wound, and a cold shroud of stillness settle about his friend’s body.

He held Cordelia as the first sobs came. 

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Do you need anything else, Mr Wyndam-Pryce?”

He opened his eyes, obscurely ashamed of himself for falling asleep. Looked over at Cordelia who was dozing in the molded plastic chair, a red crease in her cheek where her head rested uncomfortably in her palm. He glanced at his watch. Five thirty. 

The nurse was leaning over Wesley, who had been rolled onto his good side while she changed the dressing. She was almost finished; her hands moving efficiently but gently over the wound. Gunn wanted to close his eyes again, to not see the swathe of white that was bound tightly about Wesley’s body. To not hear the quiet gasps of pain that Wes couldn’t help making. To not know how much his friend was hurting.

The nurse reached over and pressed a button attached to the drip, making a quiet little tutting sound.

“This is a self-medicating drip, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. Operative word _self._ You’re supposed to press the button when you’re in pain.”

“Yes, of course. I’m s-sorry,” Wesley stumbled over the word. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Gunn watched as she fixed the final bandage in place, stark white against Wesley’s naked back. Wondering how close the bullet had come to the vertebrae. Inches. Centimeters. _Millimeters._

No, that was not a place to go. He remembered instead the surgeon’s cautious optimism. “He’ll need bed rest and physiotherapy, but I’m afraid there’ll be quite a bit of pain.”

Well, if his back was anything to go by, Wes was familiar with pain. Close personal friends with it. Gunn wondered what the hospital staff must have thought when they examined him. 

The most recent injury was the bite from the demon they had chased that night when the three of them had ended up at Caritas. The bruising had darkened to purple, but the teeth marks where the creature had ripped open his shoulder were still clearly visible. Shadowy bruises now overlapped a thin lattice work of knife cuts that spider-webbed across his shoulders. Someone had marked him intentionally, taken the time to carve these lines into his flesh, leaving a permanent signature. He wondered who had wanted to hurt Wesley so badly that they had scarred him so.

He knew the origin of the burn scars on his upper spine. He had gone to the hospital after the explosion at Angel’s offices, when the vampire had come and asked him to protect his people. And he had understood that. You looked out for your crew. He had overheard the doctors talking about burns and a chronic back injury and at the time all he could think was what the hell was this scrawny-looking British guy doing fighting demons in downtown L.A. He knew better now.

He could see other scars, tracing across his lower back, older than the others, stretched thin with growth, and Gunn really didn’t want to imagine how he’d come by those. 

The nurse finished and rolled Wesley onto this back, smoothing the covers around him. She tapped the drip sternly.

“Now, you make sure you use this, or the doctor will have you put back under sedation.”

Wesley flushed a little, and nodded his compliance. Gunn waited till the nurse had left the room, then mover his chair closer to the bed. Wes turned his head and his eyes were clearer now, lacking the drugged glassiness of earlier.

“Hey.” He remembered the doctor’s orders about keeping it quiet, and offered Wes a small smile.

The answering smile was wide and genuine. “You were here before.”

Gunn took it as a question. “Yeah, you woke up to tell me how much you loved being high.”

Again with the blush, and Gunn put out his fist, pressed it gently to the curled knuckles.

“You ought to go home and get some rest. You look exhausted.”

This from the man who had just had a bullet dug out of his gut.

“You looked in a mirror lately, Wes?” But he said it gently, curving his hand around the pale fist. 

Wesley looked over at Cordelia, and Gunn knew he was seeing the smudged traces of mascara under her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t mean to upset her…”

He tightened his grip, just a little. “That’s it, English. You don’t apologize for this, you hear me?” Put a little mean in his voice, the way he did when one of his crew stepped out of line.

Wesley’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment he looked lost and hurt. Then that smile again, the one that reached right to his eyes. “I hear.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

A pause, and Wesley shifted position, not quite stifling a small groan. 

“Did anyone call?”

He meant Angel. No matter how he tried to hide it, Wesley truly cared what the vampire thought of him. 

“He was here. Heard about the shooting and turned up to check on you.” He nodded towards Cordy. “Mother tigress here caught him before he could sneak in.”

Wes glanced at her. “Poor Angel.”

Gunn almost agreed. But secretly he was glad it was Cordy who had caught the vampire rather than him. She, more than any of them, knew what needed to be said. And she wasn’t afraid of saying it.

“He had it coming, Wes.”

“I know.” Suddenly he was pale, as if the effort of talking had worn him out, and he seemed to shrink back against the pillow. 

“You okay, man?”

“I’m just a little tired. Think I might sleep for a bit.”

He kept his hand over Wesley’s as he drifted into slumber.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Can I get you anything, Wesley?”

Virginia sat rigid in the chair by his bed, one hand resting over Wesley’s, the other coiled tight in her lap. Her face was even paler than usual under the perfect make-up, and who in the world spends time putting on make-up when they get a wake-up call to tell them their boyfriend’s just been shot. Well, Virginia Bryce, obviously.

He suppressed the uncharitable thought, knowing the only reason she wasn’t here last night was that they had forgotten to call her. Wes had asked after her, and Cordy had caught his eye and bitten her lip in guilt. Hurried off to remedy the situation, while he had made up some lame excuse about it being too late to call. 

And she had arrived half an hour later, trembling all over and on the verge of tears. She had broken down and wept when she saw him through the glass, and Gunn had wanted to yell at her, shake her for such self-indulgence. Cordy had seen his anger and she had put her arms around Virginia and let her sob, sending him a daggered look. 

And so he had tried to imagine it from her point of view, arriving well after the fact, seeing him all thin and pale in the ICU. Not seeing the bullet tear into his gut, jerking him backwards and sending him crumpling to the ground. Not hearing his quiet whispered understatement.

_“I don’t think I’m doing very well.”_

He stood up abruptly, the plastic chair skittering back across the tiled floor. Wesley looked up at the sudden sound, and Virginia jumped a little. 

“Are you alright?” Wesley’s voice was full of the same gentle concern he had shown Virginia when she had crept into his room and clung to him for comfort.

“Sorry, uh - I’m sorry. I’ll just go and get a coffee. You need anything?” He addressed her as much as Wes; and she shook her head. 

Wesley’s gaze fell upon the pale green cup that sat on the bedside locker. 

“I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of a decent cup of tea?” There was a wistful quality to his voice, as if he had already accepted the hopelessness of his request. Judging by his reaction to the stuff they were calling tea here, his pessimism was well-founded. Wes had taken one sip and shuddered, only managing to swallow it because spitting it out was not an option for Wesley. 

“Dear God, that’s just… horrible! I wouldn’t offer that to my worst enemy.”

“And why would you be offering your worst enemy tea? Is this one of those weird traditions you guys have, like you all sit down before a battle and have tea and jam sandwiches?”

Wes had given him a look. “No, and it’s cucumber sandwiches, actually.” 

He hadn’t been able to hide his grin, and Wes had blushed and smiled back. “And you are just winding me up, aren’t you? You should be ashamed of yourself, Gunn, making fun of me in my weakened state.”

He had held out his fist, and Gunn had brushed his own against those pale knuckles.

He moved to the door of the room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Cordelia was sitting opposite the nurses’ station, idly flicking the pages of a magazine. He had told her to go home for a rest a couple of hours ago, but it looked like she’d only been gone long enough to shower and change. 

“Cordy! You’re supposed to be sleeping.” She peered up at him, the lack of make-up making her look younger than normal. 

“Who can sleep?” She looked over his shoulder, towards Wesley’s room. “He’s okay, isn’t he?” There was a tiny catch in her voice, the little rise betraying slight panic. 

“He’s okay. What’s that the doc keeps saying? As well as can be expected.”

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?” She was looking hard at him and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

“Gunn. You know what I mean.” Her hand fluttered over his T-shirt, over the dark stain at its centre. “Go home and change. Take a break.”

“Hello, pot. Have you met the kettle?” 

She slapped him lightly on the arm, and left her hand resting there. “You’re no good to him like this.”

Damn her. Damn her for seeing. He shook his head dumbly and she slid her other arm around him, holding him firmly. He felt his knees sag, and he leaned against her, closing his eyes.

“He took a bullet for me. It was meant for me.”

The grip on his upper arm was fierce. “No. Not meant for you. Wes saved you. His choice. Not yours.” 

He held onto Cordelia and he did not cry.

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Wes! Hey, English! You okay there?”

Wesley had closed his eyes, his breathing suddenly hitching. He relaxed again, his face brightening with embarrassment. 

“Fine. Just… um… appreciating the tea.”

He grinned at Wesley’s reaction. “Thought you might like it.”

“Russian Caravan. My favourite. How in heaven’s name did you track it down? I left the last of it in a caddy at the hotel. Tell me you didn’t go back to get it?”

He shook his head. “Found a place on West Third Street that sells it.”

Wesley nodded sagely. “Chado.”

And he should have figured Wes would know the local tea dens. Where to go to get his fix.

Wesley had blushed a deeper shade of red. “I didn’t mean to put you to any trouble.”

He frowned and leaned forward, fingertips resting lightly on the bed covers. “You didn’t. And it wasn’t.” 

The scent of the tea enveloped them, and he remembered earlier that morning in the tea shop, when the quietly knowledgeable assistant had explained the blending process and opened the jar to weigh out the dark leaves. As soon as the aroma had hit him he had felt a surge of unplanned emotion, standing in the middle of that cool sanctuary, his throat closed tight with unshed tears. Had almost thrown the money at the man, just desperate to get out of the shop before the sting in his eyes became more than a threat.

He sat back in his chair, and gave Wesley what he hoped was a ‘don’t push it’ kind of look. Wes shoved his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again. He lifted the tea cup instead and took a sip, then smiled shyly. 

“Thank you, Gunn.” 

The door to Wesley’s room was flung open and Cordelia breezed in, waving an audio tape triumphantly. 

“I got it!”

She slapped the tape onto the bedside locker and flopped into the chair. “The adulation may begin.”

They both just stared at her. 

“Anytime now would be good.” Fingernails tapping the sides of the chair in an impatient rhythm.

“Not that we don’t love you anyway, Cordy, but what specifically are we adoring you for?” 

She sat up very straight and almost preened. “Cricket World Series. Giles taped it off British Radio. I called him and he sent me a copy of this week’s game.”

He could almost feel Wesley trying not to correct her. She caught Gunn’s eye and winked conspiratorially. 

“Test Match Special on the Home Service?” Wesley couldn’t resist.

“Don’t know why you want to listen to it anyway.” Another sly wink. “Bad enough when you watch it, but seriously, listening to it? Makes baseball seem exciting.” And she was off. “A game that lasts all day. With a tea break? Only the English could come up with that. And all that crap about silly mid leg overs and LBW, and isn’t that a zip code or something? Like London, Britain, West?”

Wesley was watching her with a mixture of exasperation and extreme fondness. Her rant was interrupted by the arrival of the nurse. 

“Well, you’re looking much better, Mr Pryce.” She checked his pulse and did a blood pressure reading, then inspected the drip. “You are taking this when you need it, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Wesley answered; a bit too readily in Gunn’s opinion. He’d have to make sure English looked after himself. Or maybe do it for him.

The nurse looked unconvinced, but she sighed lightly and headed for the door. She turned back to them as she opened it. “Now. Is there anything else I can get you?”

Wesley looked at them both and smiled.

“No, thank you. I‘ve got everything I need right here.”


End file.
